p00frog

Ask me what my favorite movie of all time is, and the answer is, hands down, anything Indiana Jones. And in just a short few days, I, along with many other young men and women across the United States, am going to make my way out to the nearest movie theater to see the "adventure continue," as the movie's marketing suggests.

Admittedly, if you sit me down with all three movies, a bucket of popcorn in one hand, a Dr. Pepper in another, and a girl wrapped up somewhere in between--that, in my mind--is probably the ultimate example of the best date ever. Now show me the woman that would enjoy sitting down with me to watch all 6-odd hours of Indy, and I'll show you the ring I would use to ask her to be my wife.

But what is it about Indiana Jones that is so fascinating? His bull-whip? His hat? His brown leather jacket? For the women, his rugged good looks? Or maybe it's not Indiana Jones at all ... maybe it's merely the allure of the adventure. But try inserting any other fictional character into the scene and it doesn't quite work as well without him. To take it even further, try inserting any other actor as the role of Indy and anyone other than Harrison Ford doesn't quite work, either. Can you imagine George Clooney fighting Nazi's or falling into a pit of snakes? Or Mel Gibson attempting the dry humor in Jone's often sarcastic dialogue?

Perhaps our capitvation is forever entombed in the adventure and mystery of the unknown. For those short couple of hours Indiana spends getting chased and shot at while looking for rare artifacts, those aren't just his adventures, we share in them also.

In our cyber-world of Google and Wikipedia, the answers to all life's problems are literally at our finger-tips. Just like a good girlfriend gone bad, life seems to have lost its "chase." What little mystery is left in the universe awaits discovery by scientists or astronauts with years of credentials under their belts. Sure, Jone's is a doctor and experienced archaelogist, but he needs little more than a few simple tools, a bit of tenacity, and a passion for discovery.

While the Web site says the adventure continues; I ask, does it have to end at all?

For those of you that know me -- if it is at all possible, I like to avoid confrontation. If confrontation is imminent, then bring it on. If not...let's settle this with a hand shake and a smile.

So then, why have I chosen journalism as my major? Why then, have I chosen journalism as my life long pursuit of employment? On my very first assignment this semester for the school paper, I have been dogged on by someone I interviewed for using a word in the wrong context. I guess in all fairness, it was a very poor decission to use a word I didn't quite understand. But still...throw me a frikkinbone.

If that bruise to my ego wasn't bad enough, two other people on separate occassions responded this way to a question:

- one said that the question was misleading
- another said that she refused to answer the question as it was due to it's "invidious implications...". If you don't know what invidious means, look it up at dictionary.com. Hint: It's not a term of endearment.

Maybe it's a bad idea to focus my writing attention on politics and religion -- the two most insidious causes of war.

Maybe I should instead turn to writing children's books... if I misuse a word or ask an "invidious" question -- the worse they can do is bite me.

What is life but a series of chronological events that lead up to the single most fateful, and ironically last, moment of our existence?

There are a couple of things I have learned in the short time that I have had lungs to breathe and a brain that even lends me to think on these things to learn: and that is that every material thing is not intended to serve to make us happy. The American motto, dream and creed is essentially summed up in 4 words, "the pursuit of happiness". And sadly, this pursuit of happiness can also coincide with our pursuit of "stuff". But what is happiness?

Too often we confuse it with fun.
Fun = smiling
Happy = smiling
So, we incorrectly mislabel fun and think, maybe not consciously, that those two terms are interchangeable.

Sure, the jet ski in the middle of summer on Joe Pool Lake is fun. But it isn't the source of my happiness. And if it was, does that mean my happiness ends when the fun goes away?

It's in those moments between lying down for bed and falling asleep that we discover whether or not we are truly happy. Maybe this is why we can't fall asleep unless the radio or television is on. Because in the quiet place is when we are forced to come to grips with who we are. This is the sad reality of our culture: we are all about going and all about noise, but very little self-actualization, if any, is able to take place within the buzz that is the American dream. We have raped ourselves of individual self, and replaced it with a pre-packaged idea of what life should look like. If we were to base life on strictly commercials, life looks like skinny models that eat McDonalds that take medicine to help them sleep at night because they have trouble solving their genital itching problems.

I'm so glad that advertisements are not a true reflection of life.

In Ecclesiastes, Solomon says that the same fate comes to us all – death. Whether you are white, black, yellow, red, blue, fat, skinny, rich, poor…in the end, we all die. So when you think of it in that light, material things seem of little consequence in the end.

Anne Bradstreet reiterates this idea in her poem, Here Follows Some Verses Upon the Burning of Our House, "A Prise so vast as is unknown, Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own. Ther's wealth enough, I need no more; Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store. The world no longer let me Love, My hope and Treasure lyes Above." Everything under the sun is temporary. Despite the treasures man may obtain , despite the status he may acquire – the same end comes to us all; death. From dust we were formed, to dust we shall return. As Bradstreet said, Adieu, Adieu – all is vanity.

I got flack for posting this on my myspace blog.

But...drunkenness is one of my pet peeves in American culture and among my generation. And it's not a holier-than-thou pet peeve, either. It's based off of scientific evidence that binge drinking is bad for your health (and the photographic evidence that it makes you look foolish). So...enjoy.

Behold; the stages of drunkenness.

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So -- it all starts out with you wanting to go party it up with your "boys" or your "girls". Ya'll are a team, you got eachother's backs! You and your posse know how to have fun!

As you make your way to the club or the party, you high-five eachother, making it known (and rather loudly I might add) that you just can't wait to get "f-ing smashed tonight!". You may even start the night off with some shots before you even head out. This loosens you up. It's like the pre-game warm-up, so you don't strain your liver or something.

Finally, you arrive at the club, all the while still talking about how smashed you already are or are going to get.

You take your first drink. Woo-hoo, this is great. You high-five all of your friends and offer them a sip of your drink.

You take some more drinks.

And some more.

And eventually, you just drink whatever is around. All beverages become community beverages.

Then it hits.

You throw up.

"Hey, that's awesome!" you're friends yell out. And then they say more, more! You're throwing up. Clearly you haven't had enough. At this point your body is saying, "hey moron -- listen to me! Not your friends! You're poisoning me and I'm just trying to get this poison out of my body!"

Poison? Who cares. This is way too fun!

So, you drink some more.

And some more.

And then some hot dude or dudette says, "you need another drink! Here, let me pour it for you!" So you drink some more.

Eventually you black out. At this point, your body has taken over and said enough is enough. Blacking out is your bodies way of keeping you from drinking any more.

You see...throwing up and blacking out aren't things to be proud of. They aren't trophies that you should display proudly on your mantle and then brag about later on in the week.

Throwing up and blacking out is your bodies way of telling you to stop, or else there are serious consequences -- dangerous ones, possibly lethal.

If the defenition of "fun" is not being able to remember what it is you did while you were having said "fun"...then I want no part of it.

Party it up boys and girls.

Because while you may be living for the party and having the times of your life...

At least I'll be able to look back and say, "oh hey -- I remember that weekend."

Oh...and I won't need a new liver later on in life, either.

Christmas has been put on hold.

“I haven’t seen it this slow since the winter of 1964, when Rudolph saved the day with his nose so bright”, said head elf Sam. Sam has overseen toy production ever since Henry Ford’s engineers perfected the assembly line in 1913. “Bernard used to be the head elf, but he simply couldn’t change with the times – he was holding us back.”

Production has dramatically increased under the command of Sam, and the numbers speak for themselves. But maybe it isn’t just the advent of the assembly line. There’s something special about Sam. He possesses a certain swagger and magic that motivates the rest of the elves to work their hardest and very best. Some call it charisma, but Sam says, “I just put a little something extra in their hot cocoa.”

But the usual hustle and bustle of the North Pole has grown to a near grinding halt. Big Papa “S”, as he has come to be known around the break room, has been summoned to court. And it’s not for jury duty.

“I’m worried sick about my husband. He just hasn’t been his usual self since he received the request to appear in court”, Mrs. Clause is overheard telling the associated press over the elf telephone. When asked whether or not she would appear alongside her husband, she responded, “of course. It worked for Kobe.”

But this particular trial isn’t over doubts that Mr. Clause isn’t being faithful to Mrs. Clause. No, this is far worse.

It all started in 2003 when the ACLU took on a campaign to get signatures all across the United States to take a stand against Santa’s overbearing, judgmental character. Having a child’s name placed on a sheet of paper labeled the “Naughty List” is simply too much for any young one to bear.

“I suffered for years as a result of receiving coal in my stockings back in 1999”, said one child from Massachusetts. The psychology bills have added up to millions of dollars, and angry parents are demanding that Santa pay the brunt of it.

“He can’t be responsible for the actions of the children,” Santa’s defense attorney told us, “ultimately, the actions of the children lies solely on the child’s upbringing. Hence, the responsibility is on the parents.”

But Senator Clinton has a different stance, “It takes an entire village, idiot, to raise a child”. (In her defense, we didn’t know if she was actually calling us here at ‘Frog Leg Presses’ an idiot, or if she was stating that it actually takes a “village idiot” to raise a child. Attempts to reach her for clarification have been futile).

Right now the ACLU is trying to determine how Santa differentiates between right and wrong.

“He simply cannot make that judgment call on his own!” says one ACLU lawyer. “If it is found to be the Bible that Santa bases his moral code on, then you can be certain we will bring another suit against him, as he is in clear violation of the “establishment clause”….er, no pun intended.

We will have more for you as this story continues to develop.

When I first heard that Paris Hilton was planning on making music, I think I laughed. And then gagged. And for good reason; Paris Hiltons' only apparent talent is spending money. That's the one thing that hurled her into celebrity status. It's certainly not her brains or looks (although some would argue that Paris Hilton is a blonde haired, brown eyed goddess...to which I would say...are you kidding me?) But then again, I am certainly not a fair judge due to my partiality to wholesome brunettes. Especially southern brunettes with green eyes. Yowsa.

Regardless of whether or not you favor her appearance, you cannot deny the fact that she is successful (of course, it all depends on how you measure success). Her name is attached to perfume, lingerie, purses, drinks and she hopes to one day open a hotel and boutique chain simply called 'Paris', so as not to have any affiliation with her parents popular hotel chain.

But what about the bimbo we always see on television? The one that popularized the saying, "that's hot"? A saying that is now being spouted off and repeated by little 16 year old wanna-be-socialites of the world. In a recent article I read about Paris, she says about her album, "I, like, cry, when I listen to it, it's so good." Geez...what an idiot, I thought. But when I read the rest of the article, I saw her in a somewhat different light. Now don't get me wrong, by no means am I a fan of Paris, I simply view her in a different light. It's a very subtle change in lighting, but it's there.

Her single, "Stars Are Blind" is climbing the top of Billboard's dance music charts. She says, "I think when people don't know it's me, they won't judge it. But if they know it's me, then they'll be like, `Ugh.' They won't even dance." Duh! What a smarty. And that obnoxious baby voice that she uses in "The Simple Life"? She says it's an act. In a magazine interview with Blender, she tells them that, "I'm always playing a character. I don't talk like this really like a baby. I don't act like myself in public, because I don't really want to show everyone the real me. Because I have no privacy whatsoever, the only thing I have is who I really am." Now that's probably the smartest thing I've ever heard her say.

So what about teenage girls that try to emulate this helpless, baby, party-girl image that Paris says is an act? Well...the French have a word for them, "idiote".